A New Heart
by LadyDenney
Summary: {Human AU FrUk} A young Francis Bonnefoy, out on his own at the age of seventeen, goes to London with the hopes of becoming a model and a fashion icon. Out of desperate need of money, Francis lives the life of a male prostitute in the streets of downtown London, hoping to be discovered. Although he is never discovered by a scout, he is discovered by another young man, Arthur.
1. Prologue

A New Heart

Prologue

Ever since Francis was a young boy, his parents always knew there was something different about him. When all the other boys his age were playing football, Francis wanted to take dance classes. When all the other boys asked for the latest action figure for Christmas, Francis would much rather play with a Barbie doll or play dress up with his mother's makeup. Of course, his parents weren't very happy about this. His father was always pressuring him to like what "normal boys" liked, and constantly signing him up to play on summer sports teams. His mother became a heavy drinker, and she would find herself crying, asking herself where they went wrong with her son, and why couldn't he just be normal. Francis didn't think there was anything wrong with him, though. He knew he was different, yes, but different didn't mean wrong.

Despite all of his father's effort and all of his mother's tears, Francis never changed. He was born in 1960, in Nice, France, and he never felt like he belonged in his body. When he was a teenager, he grew his hair out, styling it like a woman would. He would sneak a tube of lipstick or a palette of eye shadow from his mother's makeup drawer, and when he would get to school, he'd apply the makeup in the boy's bathroom. Francis was always sure to wipe this makeup off before his father came to pick him up from school. He knew there'd be hell to pay if his dad found out he was wearing makeup. The year was 1978, and Francis was only a couple months away from turning eighteen, when he forgot to wipe this makeup off one day. With his lips painted a soft pink, his eyes decorated in a nude shimmer, black liner, and lashes elongated with black mascara, he waited outside of the school for his father's car. Francis had very few friends. Most of the other students made fun of him and thought he was a freak, so he was destined to hang out with the other freaks, which consisted of a few other boys and girls who were of the same persuasion as Francis. Today, Francis stood alone as he waited, the few friends he had having already left. Francis's father pulled up about twenty minutes after the school day was up, and Francis still had his mother's makeup painted on his face. He didn't even give the makeup two thoughts as he walked to the car, opening the door up and throwing his bag into the backseat as he sat down. He didn't even get a word out before he felt his father's glare, and then it hit him. His eyes widened and he bit the inside of his painted lip.

"What's on your face?" his father snarled. After a few seconds of hesitation, Francis spoke up.

"It's… makeup, papa."

"Why are you wearing it? Makeup is for women."

"I like it!" Francis blurted out. He knew he was in for it now. "I think it looks good, papa! And it makes me _feel_ good!"

"I don't care!" his dad snapped, anger present in his eyes. "I'm tired of this, Francis! You are a man, not a woman! I did not have a daughter, and I didn't raise a queer! This is the last straw." He has dealt with walking into his son's room and seeing him dressed up in skirts and dresses, trotting around in high heeled shoes, and he felt like he couldn't deal with this anymore. Now he's discovered his son was doing this in public, at the young age of seventeen. Francis sunk into the seat of the car. He had never seen his father so angry, and he didn't know what punishment awaited him. His father sped off from the school parking lot, driving off in a direction not towards their home. Francis was confused at this point, and he stared out the window with a furrowed brow.

"Papa?" he asked, "Where are we going?" His father provided no answer. He simply drove in silence. They drove and drove, Francis's fear growing as they pressed on, only to stop upon arrival at the train station.

"Get out." his father said with a low growl. Francis stared at his dad in disbelief.

"But…why?"

"No son of mine is going to dress like that. Here," he pulled out his wallet and handed Francis some money, "buy yourself a train ticket. Go wherever you like, but you are not welcome in our home anymore. Look at what you've done to your poor mother…" He put the car in park and unlocked the door, not moving until Francis got out of the car.

"But…but papa, I can—

"Non!" his father shouted "Get out of the car, Francis!" Francis's eyes were wide with fear at his father's demands, but he got out of the car, grabbing his school bag. Instantly, the moment all the car doors were shut, his father sped off, back in the direction he came, not even looking back. Francis didn't know what to do. Tears built up in his eyes as he stood at the entrance to the train station, afraid and confused. He hunched over and began to cry, not knowing what else to do. Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do now? He sat against the wall of the entrance, watching people as they passed through the terminals, his mascara streaming down his face with his tears. He sat there for hours until it got dark, and then he came up with a plan. He didn't need his parents, they never supported him anyway. He had always thought about running away, getting on a ship and living in London. He knew London had a huge fashion industry, and he had always wanted to be a model. So why shouldn't he do that now? There was nothing for him in France, nothing to hold him here, so he should just go. And just then, as if it was a sign of fate, a bus pulled up, and parked, opening its doors. It would be cheaper than a train ticket, and it would get him to where he needed to go, so Francis got on the bus, paid the fare, and took a seat, wiping the black lines away from his cheeks as he began his journey to the English Channel.


	2. Chapter 1

A New Heart

Chapter 1

Francis has been in London for five years now, and things did not work as well as he had hoped. He did as much as he could to try and get noticed. He would attend every fashion show he possibly could, talking to every agent he could find, he paid a man to take photographs of him for a portfolio even, yet no one wanted to give him a chance. Francis started to run out of money shortly after arriving in London, and it was difficult for him to find a steady job. He would do a few odd jobs here and there, but not many people wanted to hire a man who dressed in women's clothing, so they usually found some reason not to hire him whenever he came into interviews. One night in 1980, as Francis was in a bar, drinking away his last few pounds, a man came up to him. This man was suspicious looking, to say the least. He was large, both upwards and outwards, and he dressed in all black, as if he was trying not to draw attention to himself, but doing just so in the process. Now, by Francis's behavior, this man could tell that poor Francis was down on his luck. Francis was hunched over a glass of whiskey, wearing a tight black sweater, a patterned skirt that hung down to just above his knees, panty hose with plenty or snags and tears, with black heels strapped to his feet. The man walked over to Francis, propping his elbow up on the edge of the bar, just at Francis's side, with the most disgusting little smirk on his face.

"Why don't you let me buy you a drink?" the man asked Francis, with a thick Northern accent.

"…Sure, just as long as you don't expect me to pay you back." Francis looked up at the man with a slight glare, wondering what he wanted from him. This man ordered them each a double of whiskey, and the bartender was quick to oblige, these two being the only two customers at this early hour. He struck up a bit of small talk with Francis, nothing much worth noting, before he cut to the chase.

"You know, I know a lot of people who will pay for a pretty set of lips like yours." Francis looked up at him in curiosity, his brow crinkled.

"What do you mean?" Francis questioned.

"I _mean _have you ever thought about working nights, kid?"

"Working nights? …You mean selling myself?"

"Yeah," the man said with a nod, "It's an easy way to make a living, and a guy as pretty as you would have a breeze with the clients. How old are ya, kid?"

"I'm twenty," Francis answered meekly.

"Perfect! You're young and fresh," the man smiled and laughed, patting Francis's back, "So what do you say? We could start you tonight. We'll get you some food, new clothes, and a warm place to stay. And all you have to do is lie there." Francis thought about it for a moment. Initially, he was disgusted by the idea and wanted to turn him down, but when he mentioned the guaranteed food and bed, that made this deal a little sweeter. All he would have to do is…have sex with men. That forbidden fruit that everyone tried to keep Francis away from would now be his source of income. He imagined it. All these men, surely a couple or so a night, who were going to pay to be with _him_, who were going to make love to him, who were going to kiss him, who were going to tell him how beautiful he was. He really romanticized this in his head, something he tended to do with every situation. He couldn't think of a reason to say no to these (the obvious reason being the furthest things from his mind) so he didn't.

"Okay," Francis gave a confident nod, "I'll do it."

"Good boy!" the man practically cheered, "Come then, I'll take you to your new home." The two men finished their drinks, each with a smile on their faces, although the other man's smile was much more enthusiastic than Francis's nervous, timid smile, and they left the bar. Francis had no idea what awaited him.

For a while, Francis enjoyed his job. They started him off on men who they knew wouldn't hurt him, who they knew were good, and after Francis became more experienced, they sent him out on the street, to where he could recruit his own clients. This was when things started to get rough. Men came to him who wanted to do the most perverted things with him, and if he refused, they'd give him a beating. Sometimes the beating was part of the job, even.

On a cold January evening in 1983, Francis was huddled up, working a dark street corner. He was wearing a tight, sparkled dress, with no sleeves, that hardly cover him. Underneath, he was wearing fishnet tights, with a faux fur coat over top, balancing atop tall, red stiletto heels. A young man, about the same age as Francis, was walking down this street, bundled up in a grey pea coat, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, and an ivy cap placed neatly on his head, covering his short, blonde hair. There was a fold of money in his pocket, and he was impulsively checking it, just to making sure he hasn't dropped it somehow. When Francis noticed this man walking towards him, he could tell he was looking for someone to spend the night with. This man was nervous, and constantly looking around to making sure no one could see or recognize him. Francis figured this was his first time, so he stepped forward, under a streetlamp, waiting for the potential client to get closer. He put on his best smile, with his lips painted red, and spoke as the other man approached him.

"Bonjour," Francis smirked sensually, "Are you looking for something exotic tonight?" His foreign accent was kind of his bit, and it actually helped him get a lot of clients.

"Ugh…yes. I suppose I am," the Brit answered him quietly, giving a coy nod.

"Let's go back to your place, then," Francis stepped forward, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear, "We can get more comfortable there. Enchante, monsieur." The client swallowed dryly at the French words.

"Ah…right. Carry on then," he said with a nod, before turning away, and waving for Francis to follow.

"What's your name, Cherie?"

"My name? Why do you need to know my name?" the first time client was obviously nervous.

"Security reasons," Francis shrugged, "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone you paid me a visit. I just need your name, mon ami."

"Right," the client nodded as they walked. He took them to a shady hotel room, something Francis was very used to after doing this for three years now, "My name is Arthur."

"Bonjour, Arthur. I'm Francis," he chuckled as they walked into the hotel room. Francis took his fur coat off and tossed it aside, before letting himself fall onto the bed with a smile, "So what will we be doing tonight?" Arthur was still very nervous, and sat on the bed, staying quiet for a moment, rather unsure of how to answer the Frenchman's question.

"W-Well…" Arthur stammered out, "What do you normally do?" This wasn't only Arthur's first time with a prostitute, but his first time with a man.

"Whatever you want, Arthur," Francis leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Arthur, placing a sweet kiss behind his ear as he tossed the ivory cap off of his client's head, "You seem nervous," Francis spoke in a calm, sultry voice, "so why don't you let me take the reins? I'll help you relax a little bit, and you can instruct me from there, oui?" As he spoke, his hands wandered Arthur's body, and he removed the scarf and coat the British man was wearing, tossing them to the side with the cap and his own fur coat.

"Yes…" Arthur managed to get the words out, in his flustered state, "That sounds fine."

"Great," Francis smirked, getting off the bed and moving in front of the other man, "Now…" Francis kneeled down in front of him, slowly undoing his trousers, "You just sit back and relax, and let me know if you want anything special." Arthur stayed silent, letting Francis do as he pleased, but inside, he was practically screaming. Why was he doing this? What was he letting this man do to him? Why doesn't he stop this man? Why did he like this?

Francis pulled Arthur's trousers down to just below his waist, revealing his manhood. Arthur was, surprisingly to himself, already a bit excited, his length hardening for the Frenchman. He nervously grabbed the sheets behind him, staring down at Francis as he pulled down the boxer shorts next, leaving his member bare and defenseless against whatever the prostitute had planned. With a smirk, Francis wrapped his hand around the stiffening member.

"I can see you like me already," he said before giving the hardening flesh pumps, massaging it, and feeling it grow in his hand. Arthur was in a stunned, nervous silence. A part of him still couldn't believe this was happening, or maybe he just couldn't comprehend this. After all, he had never done anything like this before, at least not with another man.

Arthur swallowed, letting out soft, low moans and biting his lip as the Frenchman massaged him. A bead of nervous sweat began to slide down his forehead when he felt his manhood grow in Francis's hand. Now that he was stiff, Francis leaned in, taking the tip of the flesh in between his soft lips, still painted red with lipstick. Arthur's eyes widened and he gasped, jolting back on the springy mattress in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Arthur shouted out, simply taken aback by the speed at which this was moving. Francis freed Arthur from his mouth and looked up at the blonde.

"What's wrong, mon amour? Isn't this what you wanted?" he blinked, looking up at the other man with the strangest innocence in his eyes.

"…Well," Arthur rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, swallowing his nerves, "I suppose it is what I came to you for."

"Tres bien," Francis replied with the sweetest smile, hoping to make his client more comfortable, "Now, would you like for me to continue?" With that, Arthur nodded softly, scooting back up to the edge of the cheap mattress. In his head, he gave himself a small pep talk, telling him he could do this, he could handle this. Once he was given the okay, Francis took his place back at Arthur's hips, taking him into his warm mouth. Finally, the Brit relaxed, letting out an "Oh God" and a moan. He reached forward and put a hand on Francis's head, the silky, wavy blonde hair sliding in between his fingers. Francis took this as an invitation to proceed, and he took the whole of Arthur's manhood into his mouth, teasing his flesh with his tongue. As Francis continued to engulf him, Arthur arched his neck back, his jaw hanging open, and sounds of ecstasy escaping from his mouth. When he was on the verge climax, he pulled Francis away by clutching his long, blonde locks, a guiding hand pulled his jaw up, and Arthur brought Francis's lips to his own, embracing him in a deep kiss. Arthur didn't know what overtook him in that moment, but he didn't care. That kiss opened the door to the rest of the night. Francis found places on his client's body that had never been touched in such a way before, in a way that made Arthur completely submit to him, even if he had doubts, he couldn't help but let the Frenchman have his way. The pair explored each other's bodies all throughout the night, leaving no curve or crevice untouched. Their sweet sounds could be heard bouncing off the walls, and didn't stop until neither of them could move anymore.

Once their night of pleasure came to an end, the pair lay on opposite sides of the bed, each lying in a haze of sweat, the only remaining proof of their night. Francis took a deep breath, exhaling a sigh as he sat up.

"All right, mon cher," Francis began as he stood, grabbing his clothes and starting to dress himself, "That will be £350." As Francis did this, Arthur sat up as well, holding the sheets over him. He seemed a bit confused when he was given the price, as if he had forgotten that the man he just spent that time with was a prostitute. Someone who didn't necessarily want to do what they did, but someone who had to.

"Oh…" Arthur nodded, stepping out of the bed and pulling his shorts up, "Right. Just a moment." He picked up his trousers, digging his wallet out of the back pocket. He pulled the allotted amount of money from his wallet and paid Francis before getting dressed. Francis, who was already fully dressed, took the cash, and stuffed it in the waistline of his tight skirt.

"Merci," he said as he fixed his lipstick in the mirror, "I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, and whenever you want more, you know where to find me" Francis spoke with a smirk, tossing his faux fur coat on before opening the door. "Au revoir."


End file.
